


Through Sacred Lust of Praise

by Captaincharly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, Daddy!John, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Inexperienced Sherlock, Inexperienced writer, M/M, My First Fanfic, Praise Kink, Rimming, Spanking, and all the good stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 18:48:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2280729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captaincharly/pseuds/Captaincharly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sat up straighter, continuing to hold Sherlock's gaze. His tongue slipped out, unbidden, and wet his lower lip before John spoke, soft but sure, his voice pitched a bit lower than usual.</p><p>“Yes, if you're good, you get a treat, and I know you can be good, can't you, Sherlock?” John smiled at Sherlock's small but keen nod. “Because I know you can be a good boy, you can decide where we order.”</p><p>Sherlock's eyes widened before he relaxed his grip on his chair - his whole body visibly relaxed - and he blushed faintly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by Batik

For Sherlock it began the first day they met.

John could see the light blush on Sherlock’s face after he called him brilliant and extraordinary. At the time, however, John thought nothing of it, even when his subconscious took note and saved the reaction. As it did several times in the following months.

For John it began a few weeks after they had dealt with Moriarty once and for all. John was somehow able to convince Sherlock to work with Mycroft to catch the consulting criminal and make him disappear forever. The fact that John was able to persuade Sherlock to let his vendetta with his most fascinating adversary go _and_ work together with his brother was a miracle. Or so John thought.

One late afternoon John came home from the surgery. He tiredly trudged up the stairs, thinking about what they should eat for supper and rubbing his forehead to chase away his headache. He went into the living room, shed his coat and flopped into his chair. He sat in silence for a few minutes and tried to release the stress of the day. It was not easy.

There had been a flood of sick children from a nearby school who suffered from food poisoning due to an insufficiently prepared birthday treat. John alone had dealt with 15 6- and 7-year-olds who cried and vomited alternately, most refusing to take their medicine at first. John had to coax and plead with and bribe the poor little hellions but, in the end, every sprog had been treated and handed over to their respective parents or guardians with the stoically repeated advice of 'Lot's of fluids, easily digestible food after the vomiting stops and, if it isn't better by tomorrow, consult your family doctor.”

John shook his head, hauled himself out of his chair and headed for the kitchen. Maybe a cuppa would help him relax. Once the kettle was on, he had found his Oolong tea behind a box of Sherlock's pipettes — he hoped there had been no experiments involving his tea, again — having his mug ready for the water, John headed upstairs to change clothes. A few minutes later he was back, wearing his favourite beige jumper — shapeless and unflattering but warm and perfectly comfortable — and sipping his tea as he relaxed into his chair.

John had finished his tea and was nearly asleep when Sherlock got home. He awoke enough to realize Sherlock was prattling on about something — he caught the words "murderer", "Anderson" and "idiot" — but just smiled softly and let the comfort of Sherlock's voice flow around him.

He was close to dozing off completely when John's stomach growled, startling him a little further toward wakefulness.

"You should eat something, John," Sherlock said. "Your borborygmus is distracting."

Still half out of it and not completely out of the mindset he had needed for his young patients, John answered, “Yeah, I’m hungry. Now be a good boy and fetch me our take-out menus; too tired to make something. And you will eat something, no excuses. If you are good then you get a treat later.”

He did not see how Sherlock reacted, only opening his eyes and blinking blearily when Sherlock said softly, “Here John,” whilst handing him the stack of menus they had accumulated.

“Err, thank you, Sherlock,” John answered, taking the offered papers. “That was nice of you.”

Sherlock just smiled a little and draped himself over his chair.

John skimmed the tattered pieces of paper, trying to decide what he wanted to eat. As hungry as he was, he could not summon enough enthusiasm for any particular dish. Rubbing his tired eyes he asked Sherlock, “What do you want to eat? I can't be arsed to choose.”

John looked up to see Sherlock giving him an intense stare, as if he wanted to understand something.

“I'm not hungry,” Sherlock said after a few seconds, his tone a little bit challenging as he continued to watch John intensely.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear to god you are worse than the kids I had to treat today. And they had the excuse of food poisoning.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but John kept talking, narrowing his eyes.

“You are going to eat!” he said firmly.

Sherlock sat up, scooting closer to the edge of his chair, and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth with his elbows set on his thighs. His gaze was calculating and intense for a few moments before his expression settled into one of determination. Sitting back, Sherlock put his hands on the chair’s armrests and gripped them hard, his expression going blank as he did. With a very controlled voice, Sherlock asked, “And, if I am good, do I get a treat?”

In that moment John knew how Sherlock felt when all the clues came together and morphed into a clear picture. Because it was happening to him right now. His mind conjured picture after picture of Sherlock blushing and smiling after John praised him or his abilities. Of Sherlock listening to him. '... Please, Sherlock, you are better than this ... you don't have to prove anything ... everyone knows you are more clever than Moriarty … talk to Mycroft and end this stupid game ... please ...' and then of the miracle of Sherlock conceding, 'All right, John'.

But was it really a miracle? His mind reminded him of what he had said to Sherlock a few minutes ago and how Sherlock did what he had asked, without his usual brand of petulance.

John swallowed when he realised that this was a turning point. He could ignore his epiphany and Sherlock’s hint and they could go on like before. Or ... well, what would happen if John took the leap? How far would it go? John began to panic; his thoughts were whirling too fast to track. He took a deep breath and calmed himself, thinking he was putting the cart before the horse. He did not have to speculate and panic about things that were not even on the table yet, and maybe never would be. There was only one thing to decide. Did John want to take this chance or not?

John really looked at his flatmate, the man who had become his colleague, his mate and, in the end, his best friend. A lot of people did not understand why and told him as much, Donovan being just the first. Hell, every single one of his girlfriends had something to say on the matter. Yes, Sherlock was rude, abrasive, arrogant and sometimes cruel, but he was also intelligent and kind in his own way. And what most people saw but never properly observed was Sherlock's enthusiasm, his energy and his almost childlike innocence and wonder. All right, mostly Sherlock expressed those things relating to murder and crime, which a lot of people took the wrong way. But John found them lovely and now he wondered why he never thought more about his reaction to Sherlock's exuberance. In retrospect, John had to admit that he always loved seeing Sherlock like this and, yes, he wanted to see more of this side of Sherlock. Maybe directed at him. Maybe he wanted more of Sherlock altogether.

John's introspection only lasted a few moments, but when he focused his eyes on Sherlock he could see that he held his body even more taut. His eyes, on the other hand, were open and pleading.

John knew that he only could give one answer.

Yes.

John sat up straighter, continuing to hold Sherlock's gaze. His tongue slipped out, unbidden, and wet his lower lip before John spoke, soft but sure, his voice pitched a bit lower than usual.

“Yes, if you're good, you get a treat, and I know you can be good, can't you, Sherlock?” John smiled at Sherlock's small but keen nod. “Because I know you can be a good boy, you can decide where we order.”

Sherlock's eyes widened before he relaxed his grip on his chair — his whole body visibly relaxed — and he blushed faintly.

“Can we have Indian?” He asked quietly, his voice a bit hesitant.

“Of course we can. Do you want your usual?” John answered, smiling.

“Yes, please.”

“All right. I'll make the call.”

“Thank you, John.”

Both were aware that Sherlock was not thanking him for the food.

John fetched his phone from his jacket and dialled the number for Shere Punjab, their favourite — if not authentic — Indian restaurant. He ordered spinach curry for Sherlock and teriyaki chicken for himself. Looking over to Sherlock, who was still sitting on his chair, watching John make the phone call, he also ordered two dishes of pistachio ice cream. That got a smile out of Sherlock, who loved pistachio more than Mycroft loved banoffee pie.

John disconnected the call, crossed the room to stand in front of Sherlock and put his hands on his hips.

"If you are good and eat all of your curry, you can have the ice cream as your treat," he said firmly.

Sherlock nodded earnestly. “Yes, John. Thank you.”

John had to smile fondly at the soft tone Sherlock was using. It was endearing, especially in combination with the soft blush that coloured Sherlock's face, accenting his lovely cheekbones.

“I like it when you show how polite you can be,” John praised.

Sherlock looked up to John with wide, innocent eyes and a still brighter blush, smiling his John-said-something-nice-to-me smile.

It was a bit curious how easy they fell into whatever this was. Somehow it was as natural as breathing. Sherlock was asking nicely for things, saying "Please" and "Thank you", not demanding them as he would have done only hours ago. John countered by praising Sherlock often, speaking softly but firmly and savouring every smile and blush he received in return. Both of them felt the shift in their relationship but neither wanted to break the tranquil mood by broaching the subject.

John puttered around in the kitchen, getting cutlery and something to drink while Sherlock cleared the table. John went downstairs to get the food when it came and, when he returned, Sherlock had found some serviettes, put some soft music on and even got a candle from somewhere. They sat down and dug in, not speaking much but enjoying themselves together.

When the food had been eaten, John took their empty containers to the kitchen, binned them and got the ice cream out of the freezer. With both small plastic bowls and two spoons he went back into the sitting room, where Sherlock had migrated to the sofa.

“Because you have been very good and ate your whole supper, you have earned a treat," John said, handing Sherlock his ice cream and a spoon. "And since you minded your manners, said 'please' and 'thank you' and were generally well-behaved this evening, you can choose another one.”

"After they had eaten their pudding, Sherlock asked timidly, “Could you stroke my hair?” Sherlock could not look directly at John. His cheeks, which had been some shade of red the whole time, became even brighter.

John was delighted — he had always wanted to get his hands on Sherlock's mane — but he first asked firmly, “What do we say?”

“Please, John, would you pet my hair?”

“That was good, Sherlock. All right. Let's get comfortable.”

The evening ended with John sitting on the sofa, petting the beautiful head of hair in his lap as Sherlock hummed contentedly.

It was one of the most peaceful nights either of them had had in a very long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All right. I'm not good with stuff like this, but we should talk. About this.”
> 
> Sherlock knew John was right; they had to talk about this. Admittedly, he knew that John had problems expressing himself where his emotions were concerned. Not that Sherlock was any better, but he could do it, maybe. Bugger! This was important.

Sherlock was bored. Bored and agitated. He read Lestrade's latest text again — 'Stop texting me or I'll arrest you. I promise you will be the first to know if something interesting comes up.' — but Sherlock needed something to do now! He could not get new body parts — Molly was on holiday — and he had had to bin his other experiments two days ago, because Mrs. Hudson threatened to call his brother. Sherlock scoffed; the smell had not been _that_ bad. He could not smoke — or worse — because John would be disappointed. He cringed at the thought, but it was the truth.

For a long time, someone’s — Mycroft's, Mummy's — disappointment hadn’t mattered to him, not after he learned that praise was never free, that it was always a precursor to manipulation and requests. He learned that lesson while very young and began to train himself to ignore his feelings; in the end …

No, that was not something he wanted to think about!

Maybe he could look at that marginally interesting cold case with the two dead men found inside a bathroom, together with the head of a chicken and three pigs feet. Where did he put the file again? Sherlock looked on his desk. Nothing. The same was true for John's desk. And the different piles of files stacked around the sitting room. And his bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen and the stairwell.

The longer he searched, the angrier he became. He had never been good with boredom. Or with being unable to find what he was looking for.

Frustrated, he stalked back into the living room, ignoring John, who was making tea in the kitchen. Seeing some case folders sticking out from under the sofa, Sherlock headed that direction, kicking the coffee table out of his way and drawing a satisfactory crashing noise from the cups, the remote and the other items that had been on it.

Just as he gripped the edge of the sofa to pull it aside, John appeared at the kitchen door and his best Captain Watson voice rose above the clatter.

"Enough! What do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock startled and turned to John, who stood with a wide, confrontational stance in the doorway. Sherlock knew this was the point when he usually would say something caustic, John would respond angrily and they would fight until the doctor went out to get some air.

Sometimes he would be back within the hour; other times he would stay out until the next day. And then they would talk it out. Well, John would talk and complain and make suggestions or demands and Sherlock would listen and then change the subject until John would let it go.

But when Sherlock looked at John standing there, leaning a bit more on his left leg, right hand rhythmically clenching into a fist, Sherlock could not snap at him this time. Instead he felt himself blush and had to lower his head. He started to shake slightly and, to his embarrassment, felt his eyes beginning to burn.

Sherlock steeled himself for John’s anger but instead heard him take a few deep breaths. Then there were soft footsteps coming closer. He startled anew when he felt John's hand on his arm, gently taking hold, and then heard John's silently coaxing voice.

“Sherlock, it's all right. Just sit down with me. C'mon.”

Sherlock nodded, still unable to look at John, who guided him to sit down and then sat next to him.

They sat in silence for about ten minutes, until Sherlock had himself back under control. Feeling John's fingers softly stroking his arm was a welcome source of grounding warmth.

“Do you feel better?” John asked, his fingers stilling.

“Yes, John.”

“Good, well, that's good.” John cleared his throat and continued haltingly. “I know you get frustrated when you are bored and I thought, well, you seem to like ... I mean yesterday it ... I just thought maybe it would help?”

“John?”

“All right. I'm not good with stuff like this, but we should talk. About _this_.”

Sherlock knew John was right; they had to talk about _this_. Admittedly, he knew that John had problems expressing himself where his emotions were concerned. Not that Sherlock was any better, but he could do it, maybe. Bugger! _This_ was important.

Sherlock turned until he faced John, steepled his fingers in front of his face, took a deep breath to collect himself and began to talk, as if it were one of his deductions.

“Obviously I like it when you praise me, have from the beginning, and you like to praise me, probably because you like the way I react. Yes, I liked getting praise before I met you. No, I did not react this way with anyone else. You are different. I ...” for the first time in his monologue, Sherlock hesitated. “I trust you. You never use _this_ to manipulate me. You are special.”

Sherlock finally looked into John's eyes. “I would like to continue _this_. It ... it makes me feel calm.”

John blinked rapidly and opened and closed his mouth a few times, visibly flustered. Sherlock could read how deeply John was moved and gave him time to absorb his words.

After a short time John smiled, looking quite chuffed.“I don't know what to say ... calm ... me, really?” he questioned.

Sherlock nodded.

“That's good. And you're right. I like your reactions. And last night was really nice. So, we both want more of ... _this,_ but how far …” This time it was John who blushed. “I mean, do you think it will become ...?” Swallowing, John blushed even deeper.

Sherlock answered a little impatiently.

“I don't know how far it will go. Maybe it will become ... more,” Sherlock cleared his throat, now not as confident as before.“If you want it to?”

“Err, I think I could live with more.” John shyly looked away.

Sherlock answered gently, “ Me, too, I think.”

Both men, satisfied with the amount of sentiment vocalised, simultaneously ended the conversation with a resolute “Good!” before looking at each other and breaking into giggles.

After they stopped,. John continued to grin. “I'm glad we talked it out.”

Sherlock nodded his agreement, still smiling brightly.

John looked around the even-messier-than-usual living room and sighed.

“Come on, Sherlock. Let's tidy up a bit and, when we're finished, we can relax.” He pitched his voice deeper and continued, “Be a good boy and help and we can do something you like.”

Sherlock helped John with the cleaning, grumbling only when he opened the case folders from under the sofa, because they were — of course — not the ones he had been looking for.

After they were finished, John manoeuvred Sherlock onto the sofa and into the same position they had enjoyed last night, Sherlock's head nestled in his lap. Sherlock closed his eyes as he felt John stroking his fingers through his hair. That and John's warm presence had Sherlock sinking into the same peaceful state of being as last night. He had, before yesterday, only ever felt close to this, and even then not very often, under the influence of drugs. However, here with John it was so very easy to let everything go, to relax, knowing that John would be there.

“So, you have been naughty today, Sherlock. You can't act like this anymore. If you feel bored, angry or frustrated, you talk to me. And I will take care of you.” John reproached with his new, parental tone of voice. “Promise me.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced up into John's face, seeing tenderness, devotion and firmness. Sherlock thought this was the essence of John's character, everything he was, until now only rarely focused completely on him but nonetheless familiar. Feeling himself blushing, Sherlock pledged from the bottom of his heart, hoping never to disappoint John. “Yes, John, I promise.”

John smiled softly, appearing happy and content. Tousling Sherlock's beautiful curls, John said, “You are so very good if you want to be. Now, I have an important question for you, and you have to answer it truthfully.”

John caught Sherlock's eyes and held his gaze intently. Sherlock, looking back expectantly, nodded, “I will.”

“What do you want? Or maybe the better question is: What do you need, Sherlock?” John asked earnestly.

Rather than answering immediately, Sherlock took a moment to think about it. The problem was that he had no frame of reference, no neatly catalogued lists of wants and needs. Mostly, he had ignored all but the most basic needs — for rest and nourishment — and wants — for diversion and activity. But in _this_? What _did_ he need? What _did_ he want? Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to focus. He could still feel John's presence, but it became fainter as he sank deep into his mind to find answers.

He again became aware of his surroundings when John shook him gently, sounding puzzled. “Sherlock. Hey, Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock snapped his eyes open and was confronted with John's face, leaning close, worry lines around his eyes and on his forehead. Sherlock blinked fuzzily.

“John? Is something wrong?”

The lines abated but John did not lean back again. “You tell me. You haven't moved for quite a while and you didn't react when I talked to you.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked. “I was thinking about your question. You told me to answer truthfully, but I don't know what to say. I don't know what I want, or what I need; those were never things I cared to consider.” Sherlock sat up abruptly, forcing John to reel back. Before Sherlock could stand up, John embraced him from behind, splaying his hands on Sherlock's stomach and chest and pressing himself to Sherlock's back. Sherlock jerked at the contact and tried again to get up.

“Shh … stay, Sherlock. Please.” John urged, holding him a little tighter. “It’s all right.”

Hearing John's words and feeling the strong arms around himself, Sherlock stopped moving and went docile in John's hold. After tightening his grip briefly and kissing Sherlock’s temple, John gently pushed Sherlock forward until he was able to extract himself. John went to stand in front of Sherlock — never stopping to touch Sherlock — sliding one of his hands along Sherlock’s shoulder and up his neck to stop on his cheek. Sherlock, with his eyes closed, felt his head lifted and his face turned.

“Sherlock, look at me.” John requested softly. When Sherlock obeyed, he felt caught in John’s intense gaze.

“I was a little rash with my questions. I didn’t think … sometimes I forget that you are as bad as me when it comes to emotions.” John contemplated a moment, “I think I will start smaller, but you still have to answer truthfully.”

Sherlock nodded, feeling John's warm and strong hand on his face. He couldn’t prevent himself from leaning into it, even though he refused to break their gaze.

“Do you like it when I touch you, Sherlock?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded again. “Yes, John.”

“And you want to be good for me?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock answered earnestly.

“Good.” John answered Sherlock’s faint smile with one of his own.

John's thumb caressed Sherlock's cheekbone, following the blush that had increased a bit more with each question and response. Sherlock closed his eyes, sighing softly, and started to nuzzle into John's palm. Again, he felt a wonderfully calm sensation flow through him.

Smiling, John drew his face even closer to Sherlock's and whispered, “What do you want right now, Sherlock? Don't think about it, just tell me.”

“Don’t stop touching me, please,” Sherlock breathed out.

John hummed affirmatively. “I won't. I like touching you. And you blush prettily.”

This, of course, made Sherlock blush even brighter. For a few moments they both were quiet, simply enjoying their contact, until Sherlock thought of something he wanted. He mustered enough wit to open his eyes and look at John, who intently watched Sherlock's face, reveling in every expression. Affirmed, Sherlock requested softly, “Please, John, please touch me more.”

John's answering smile brightened the room. Stepping back, his hand slipped from Sherlock's face but remained outstretched, beckoning Sherlock to take it. Sherlock swiftly complied and was pulled to his feet. Instead of moving immediately, though,John hesitated.

“Sherlock, you have to promise me one more thing,” he said. “If I ever do something that you don't like, you have to tell me immediately.”

“I promise, John. I will tell you immediately if that is the case,” he said solemnly.

“All right. Come with me.”

With that, Sherlock was led into his bedroom, relieved of his dressing gown and positioned on his bed. John settled high on the bed, reclining against the headboard. He pulled Sherlock to him and rested Sherlock’s head on his shoulder, starting again to pet his hair.

Sherlock didn’t know what to do at first. He held himself stiffly until, gradually, he relaxed. Moving slowly, he twisted himself into a small ball, lying between John's legs, head resting on John's chest. After he had found the right position, Sherlock let out a huge sigh, positively melting against John as he gripped his jumper with one hand and let the other lie limp next to his face. John wrapped one arm around his shoulders, holding him securely, as he let his other hand glide through Sherlock’s hair.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock said thickly.

John's answer vibrated under Sherlock's head. “My pleasure.”

Sherlock felt John kiss his head and hummed contentedly. They dozed for a while, lulled into a light sleep by the sounds of their breathing and London in the afternoon. After some time, Sherlock heard John chuckle softly.

“John?” He questioned languidly.

“I'm sorry. But if someone had told me that you would be a cuddler, I wouldn’t have believed it.” John hugged Sherlock closer to him and kissed his head again. “You are wonderful, Sherlock.”

Sherlock felt a little embarrassed, happy John could not see him smile — what a silly, happy smile it was — as he blushed again, of course. Rubbing his face on John's chest, Sherlock murmured, “You, too.” Which earned him another kiss.

“You know, next time, when you are naughty like you were, you won't get cuddled … at first,” John promised, his voice not unkind but unquestionably authoritative.

John's tone of voice sent a shudder through Sherlock, his voice trembling a bit as he answered. "I know." He kissed John's chest through the ugly jumper of the day. "Thank you."

Seconds later they heard Sherlock's phone signal a text from Lestrade. Careful not to dislodge himself from John's arms, Sherlock reached out to grab his cell from his nightstand and read eagerly. ‘Murder. Gunshot wound, but the victim is missing his head. Portman Close.’ Sherlock exclaimed, “Finally!” and extracted himself from John’s hold. Sitting up he looked back to John. Seeing a bit of disappointment mixed with acceptance in John’s expressive face, he hesitated, biting his lower lip.

Making a shooing motion with his hand, John smiled wryly. “Go on.”

Smiling, Sherlock swooped down and kissed John’s cheek softly. “Come on, John. Murder and a missing head, only 10 minutes from here!”

Bustling with energy, Sherlock slipped into his clothes.The game was on. And after, there would be more of _this_. He could not remember ever feeling so thoroughly happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3: There will be porn ^_^


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He quickly noted two things: First, Sherlock smelled very nice – of his expensive shampoo that John would never admit to having used on occasion, and of warm sleep. Secondly, Sherlock's naked back was firmly pressed against John's pyjama-clad groin. Of course, John's morning erection pressed firmly back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut, as promised ^_^

The next week was stressful. Sherlock quickly cracked the case with the missing head but it led them to a substantial money laundering operation that was not so easy to dismantle. Sherlock and John travelled around London for days, following leads, and it was exhausting. At least for John. Sherlock was in his element, finding clues, tricking suspects and gathering evidence. Lestrade and his subordinates were barely able to keep up with the legal side of things but, in the end, they arrested most of the involved criminals with enough evidence to take them to court.

On their way home, John could not help but smile at Sherlock. The detective, still riding his post-case high, rattled on, in his unbelievably fast speech, about everything and anything to do with the case, as if John hasn't been there the whole time. However, John could see the first signs of Sherlock's pending crash.

Finally at home, John followed Sherlock up the stairs, where they shed their coats and shoes. John let Sherlock ramble on and pace the flat; it would help him burn a bit of post-case adrenalin while giving John time to duck into the kitchen to heat some tomato soup. When the soup was ready, he filled two bowls and took them into the living room.

“Sherlock, come eat,” John called out, putting down the bowls and going back into the kitchen to get spoons and the toast he had made. Sherlock was still buzzing around and answered with a distracted “Hm.”

John smiled to himself before squaring his shoulders.

“Sherlock, come and eat. Now!”

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. Slowly he turned towards John, mouth slightly open. John, who hadn’t raised his voice but merely imbued it with command, was standing next to the table, relaxed but with the promise of the soldier in his limbs. He caught Sherlock's gaze and raised a challenging eyebrow. For a moment it seemed like Sherlock would say something dismissive, but John's stare made him pause – and blush. Sherlock looked down and went, without complaint, to eat his soup.

Smiling brightly, John moved to eat his own meal, but not without first dropping a kiss on Sherlock's cheek and murmuring, “Good boy.”

Sherlock finally crashed as he ate his soup. He began eating slower and slower, his blinks becoming longer and longer and his shoulders slumped. John, who was not quite as tired – he had napped for a couple of hours in Lestrade's office this morning – encouraged Sherlock to finish his soup. After cleaning away the dishes, John walked behind the still seated Sherlock and embraced him, bending down to put his chin on Sherlock's shoulder.

“You were brilliant,” he said softly. “I'm still amazed every time you do your thing. But now it's time to sleep.”

Feeling John's arms around him Sherlock relaxed into John's hold, mustering just enough energy to shift around until he could nuzzle his face into John's neck.

“Yes?”

“Would you come with me?” Sherlock swallowed nervously. “I … please.“

John pressed another kiss to Sherlock's cheek. He could feel the heat of Sherlock’s blush on his lips.

“All right, let's meet in your bedroom. We both need a shower.”

Twenty minutes later John, clean and wearing pyjama pants and a T-shirt, walked into Sherlock's bedroom to find him already under the covers. The curtains were closed against the glare of the street lamps, but enough light sneaked past the edges for John to easily make his way to the bed.

Without making eye contact, Sherlock shyly lifted the comforter for John to slide under. Settling on his back, John opened his arms and smiled when Sherlock nearly jumped into his embrace. Sherlock scooted down until he could put his head on John's shoulder, pressing himself close. Sherlock let out a deep breath and the last bit of tension left his body. After a few minutes John also relaxed as he held Sherlock close.

As they both wiggled a bit to find a comfortable sleeping position, John felt something – or, more precisely, he felt nothing. Amused, he asked Sherlock dryly,

“Are you wearing any pants?”

“No.”

“OK.”

Both chuckled tiredly.

“Good night, Sherlock.”

“Night, John.”

About nine hours later John woke up very warm and cosy. His sleep-addled brain needed a moment to register the differences between this and his usual way of waking up. John was behind Sherlock, his chin on Sherlock’s head. Sherlock had curled himself into a small ball, knees drawn up towards his chest, head pressing back against John's chest. Sherlock was using John's left upper arm as a pillow and clutching John's hand with one of his own. John's other arm lay across Sherlock’s chest, holding him tightly. Not wanting to wake Sherlock, John did not move. Not wanting to wake Sherlock, John tried not to move, though he couldn't help the deep, yawning breath he took. He quickly noted two things: First, Sherlock smelled very nice – of his expensive shampoo that John would never admit to having used on occasion, and of warm sleep. Secondly, Sherlock's naked back was firmly pressed against John's pyjama-clad groin. Of course, John's morning erection pressed firmly back.

John froze, his breathing becoming very shallow as he tried to figure out how to shift away without disturbing Sherlock. Before he came up with a solution, he felt Sherlock twitch. Sherlock nuzzled his head against John and murmured sleepily.

“John?”

Well, leaving before Sherlock woke up was out.

“Morning, Sherlock,” John answered huskily. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did. Thank you, John … for staying.”

Hearing Sherlock thank him so earnestly made John relax a little. Which brought his erection firmly into focus – for both of them. John made a sound between a cough and a swallow as he panicked internally. They had talked about ... well, they implied, but …

“I … ah … sorry?”

John started to pull his pelvis back but, before he could move more than half an inch, Sherlock stretched his legs. The move pushed Sherlock’s arse back as he lifted John’s hand from his chest and slid it down until it was touching the tip of his now-obvious erection.

“Oh,” John said dazedly, his hand hovering uncertainly until Sherlock whispered, “Please, John, touch me.”

John pressed his forehead into Sherlock's hair, touched Sherlock’s cock hesitantly with his fingertips and focused on Sherlock's reactions. Sherlock's breath hitched as his cock jumped against John's fingers, making John bolder, leading him to tighten his grip and start to stroke. This made Sherlock moan sweetly as he moved his free arm back to grip John’s pyjama trousers. Silently cursing their height difference, John pushed himself downward until his mouth was level with Sherlock’s neck. The change in position made stroking Sherlock so much easier. John nuzzled Sherlock’s neck, kissing it softly as he continued massaging Sherlock’s dick – it was a bit thinner and about the same length as his – with slow, gentle strokes.

Sherlock groaned quietly, and John could sensed from the tension in the body pressed against his that Sherlock's arousal was increasing with every stroke of John's hand on his member. John's suspicions were confirmed when Sherlock started moving his hips in tandem with the hand on his dick, rubbing his arse against John's still-clothed cock and shuddering in response to John's own reaction – a series of hitching moans.

“Oh … Sherlock … yes!”

Reluctant as he was to break their contact, John let go of Sherlock and pulled back just long enough to push his trousers and pants out of the way before returning to his former position. Finally, there was nothing separating them. John pressed his dick into the cleft between Sherlock’s soft cheeks and rubbed, not seeking penetration but simply enjoying the added friction of the snug space around his cock..

“You feel so good.”

“Jooohnnn ...” Sherlock breathed.

John felt Sherlock tremble and move, his hips faster as his arse grew slippery with John’s precome. John felt closer to orgasm with every thrust, but he wanted to get Sherlock off first. He smiled into Sherlock's neck and started to talk in between kisses, licks and his own breathless moans.

“You are brilliant … sooo clever … my clever boy … my Sherlock … oh, yes … good boy … you're sooo good for me. I want to feel you come Sherlock,” he said at last, simultaneously gripping Sherlock’s cock more tightly and stroking him faster.

After that, it took only moments until Sherlock came, keening loudly.

The two of them were quiet for a moment after that. John suspected Sherlock was concentrating on breathing. As for John, he was still hard but content for the moment to caress Sherlock and rut gently against his backside.

It didn't take Sherlock long to recover, however, and he suddenly flipped over and pressed against John, kissing him sloppily but enthusiastically. John groaned deep in his chest. The feeling of Sherlock's soft, spent penis – still damp with ejaculate – against his hard one, and Sherlock’s clumsy kisses were nearly enough to send him over the edge. However, John’s need to look at Sherlock was overwhelming. Giving in, John gripped the hair on the back of Sherlock's head, firmly but not painfully, and pulled his head back, frantically searching Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock's hair – wild, sweaty locks of it – was sticking up in every direction. His cheeks were flushed, beautifully accentuating his sharp cheekbones. His mouth was gorgeous, still open as he panted, lips red, kiss-swollen and glisteningly wet. His eyes were both glazed over and opened wide, an enticing blend of simultaneous sensuality and innocence. Sherlock blinked dazedly and licked his lips, smiling.

“John.”

God, Sherlock looked so good. And hearing his voice, still dazed after his orgasm, breathing his name. It was too much. John pressed his erection one last time against Sherlock’s groin and came.

Taking a moment to recover a bit of his equilibrium, John – still breathing hard – opened his eyes to see Sherlock smile shyly. John smiled back and stroked a thumb reverently over Sherlock’s cheek. After getting his breath back, he sighed.

“That was … _You_ were lovely.”

Looking at Sherlock’s John-said-something-nice-to-me smile, John could not resist. Leaning forward, he kissed Sherlock's slightly swollen lips. At first the kiss was chaste, until John sucked Sherlock's plump bottom lip between his, barely trailing his tongue over the trapped skin. Sherlock made a soft sound in the back of his throat and went pliant when John again tightened his grip in Sherlock’s hair. John slowly deepened the kiss until his tongue was past Sherlock's lips, tasting and exploring. When Sherlock answered John's intrusion with his own tongue, it was John who shuddered and made a desperate sound deep in his chest.

The kiss went on for some time, neither of them hurrying, just kissing intensely.The kiss was, surprisingly, more intimate than arousing – John and Sherlock were learning one another, communicating without words and sharing something intimate.

John very slowly broke the kiss, Sherlock making an unhappy noise when he did. John smiled at Sherlock's pouting lower lip. Looking closer, he could see that Sherlock was still tired, for all that they had just awoken. Not surprising after the week they had had. John's happy smile changed into an indulgent one.

“We don't have to make our statements until tomorrow, so we have the whole day to ourselves,” he said. “I'm going to take good care of you today, and you are going to be good for me, aren't you, Sherlock?”

Blinking sleepily, Sherlock nodded, radiating relaxed lethargy as he pushed himself onto his back.

After giving Sherlock a peck on the lips, John stood, went to the bathroom and cleaned himself before taking a warm, wet cloth and a dry one back into the bedroom. Sherlock was nearly asleep again, having put his arm over his eyes to block out the first morning light. John climbed back onto the bed and cleaned Sherlock tenderly, starting with his front, where their mingled come had started to cool. John then lifted one of Sherlock's legs and pushed him onto his side again, so he could clean his precome from Sherlock’s arse. Dipping between his cheeks to tease Sherlock's anus with the cloth, John heard Sherlock’s breath hitch.

“Oh, John.”

There was so much – want, need, _trust_ – contained in those two simple words that John was momentarily overcome by a fresh wave of arousal and gripped Sherlock’s hip tightly.

"There are so many thing I want to do to you, so many things I'm going to do, Sherlock," John promised fervently, dipping his lips to place a possessive kiss on Sherlock's shoulder before pulling back and forcing himself to calm down. More gently, he added, "But first you have to sleep a little more."

Setting aside the damp cloth, John dried Sherlock and pulled the comforter over him. Sitting on the bed while softly stroking Sherlock's hair, John hummed soothingly – it was one of the songs Sherlock played for him when he had nightmares. Sherlock, still tired after the long case and drained by his orgasm, closed his eyes and rolled into himself. Both of his hands were tucked next to his face, one of them softly curled next to Sherlock’s mouth. John continued to pet Sherlock, who looked so very young and impossibly innocent like this – he seemed small, somehow. John felt something big and warm well inside him; he had felt this – the need to protect his Sherlock, his good little one – before, but never to this all-encompassing degree. Feeling overwhelmed, he couldn't stop himself from speaking.

“Sleep well, my little one.”

Sherlock, nearly asleep, hummed contentedly.

"Yes, Daddy," he answered, the trust clear in his voice as he faded into sleep.

John froze, his heart hammering in his throat. He had to breathe deeply a few times before he was able to carefully climb out of bed. He quietly walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind himself before looking at his reflection in the mirror over the sink. His eyes were wide with amazement, his mouth hanging open, and he had to laugh – albeit quietly – at his expression.

Grinning giddily, he winked at his mirror image and went to take a fast shower. He had many things to do before it was time to wake his little boy.


	4. Chapter 4

After John woke him up with a kiss and a beatific smile they had breakfast – all Sherlock's favourites – and settled back on the bed, both wearing only pyjama bottoms. John was sat against the headboard, Sherlock between his legs with his shoulder blades pressed to John's chest and his head tucked under John's chin. Again, one of John's hands had found its way into Sherlock's hair, gently combing through it.

Absentmindedly playing with John's other hand, Sherlock tried to find a way to ask John about the previous evening. He remembered what he said before he nodded off, and he wanted – no, needed – to know if John heard it, and if so, what he thought about it. Truthfully, when Sherlock had researched sexual practices, fetishes and subcultures years ago, he had been fascinated by the complexity of the topic but not personally interested. He was not completely innocent; he had kissed a few men and women in university before coming to the conclusion that it was not for him, and his other experiences – getting a blow job from a woman, giving a hand job to a man – were not something he liked to think about, not only because his memories were hazy due to his drug use at the time.

However, before Sherlock could say anything, John broke the contemplative silence.

“Sherlock? Ah … do you remember what you said before you fell asleep?”

Sherlock could hear nervousness in John's voice, but underneath there was longing, too. Sherlock stilled his fingers, sliding one of them to John's wrist, finding his pulse expertly.

“I remember.” Sherlock said steadily, blushing fiercely but forcing himself to stay relaxed. He wanted to see what John would do.

Behind him he could feel John tremble faintly, his pulse getting faster. John swallowed thickly and Sherlock could sense him opening his mouth a few times, as if to speak, only to remain silent. To break John out of his embarrassment, Sherlock gathered his resolve and spoke, only slightly hesitant.

“It's all fine, John.”

Sherlock could not see John’s face, but he would bet that John looked very relieved, because he felt it as John’s body finally, completely, relaxed beneath his own. John's touches slowly changed from soothing to arousing as he let both of his hands glide onto Sherlock's bare torso, lightly grazing Sherlock's skin with his fingertips. Sherlock felt John tip his head forward until he also felt warm breath against his ear.

“So, Sherlock, do you want to be my little one today?”

Sherlock shuddered faintly at the promise in John's voice, his mind conjuring picture after picture of what could happen. He hadn't forgotten John's words – _'There are so many things I want to do to you, so many things I'm going to do, Sherlock_ ' – and he wanted them, not even really knowing what John had in mind.. He trusted John. So, he took a deep breath and answered, a little nervously but full of anticipation.

“Yes, John.” Another deep breath was needed to make the last jump. “Yes, Daddy.”

Behind him, John laughed with relief and kissed Sherlock's cheek softly, tightening his hold to enfold Sherlock in a firm embrace.

“I think we will start with a bath. Be a good boy and start the water. I'll be right there,” John said while releasing Sherlock and pushing him into a sitting position. John climbed out of bed and held his hand out invitingly, giving Sherlock a happy look.

Sherlock smiled and nodded, taking John's hand and letting himself be pulled from bed. He hesitated a moment before finally leaning down to peck John's lips. John laughed and kissed him back, sliding his tongue over Sherlock's lips until Sherlock eagerly opened his mouth to let John in. Sherlock had to moan; the feeling of John's tongue and lips was exquisite. He lost himself in the kiss until John broke it slowly. Opening his eyes, which he could not remember closing, he dazedly sought John's eyes, making a small needy sound whilst leaning forward to close the distance between their lips again.

Johns smiled indulgently, holding Sherlock back with a hand on his cheek. He stroked his thumb over Sherlock's cheekbone.

“Slowly; we have the whole day. And I want to take my time. Come on little one, it's bath time for you.”

Sherlock could not prevent his lips from forming a little pout, which made John laugh again. Giving in, John closed the distance and sucked Sherlock’s lower lip between his teeth to nibble at. Sherlock tried to deepen the kiss but John again stepped back, until their only contact was John's warm hand on Sherlock's face. John schooled his face into an expression that was stern yet gentle. That look should have been impossible, yet the ease with which John managed it made Sherlock's breath catch in his throat.

“Enough for now. Be good and go into the bathroom.” Letting his hand fall, John stepped farther back. Still, Sherlock could not stop focusing on John’s lips, not moving until John gave him a firm pat on his butt.

“Go.”

Sherlock finally looked away and hastened his steps until he was in bathroom, where he promptly started the water. Straightening up, he saw himself in the mirror. He was blushing fiercely, continuously licking his lips – he could still taste John – and his eyes were dazed. He detachedly watched as his eyes lost their daze and grew wide, his face blanching as everything completely sank in …

Making himself vulnerable was something Sherlock had avoided since he was a teenager, his time as an addict his only lapse. Somehow he only now realised what power John could have over him. Not that he was unable to say no to anything John would do or ask of him, but that he did not want to deny John anything. Letting himself fall so deep into this mindset, letting go of his shields, losing his control. Before John, he would never have considered being like this, allowing himself to be this vulnerable. He would never have guessed that he could be so changed by one person. A seemingly ordinary person who was everything Sherlock could hope for in a partner, both privately and professionally.

Over the rushing water he could hear John walking toward the bathroom. Sherlock stood facing the door when John walked in, carrying a stool, towels and a bottle of bath essence. When they made eye contact, John's smile fell into a worried frown.

“Sherlock?” John put everything down. “What's wrong?”

Sherlock did not know what to say. That he was afraid? Not of John, but of himself and his wants? That he only now was beginning to understand what they had started? That he wanted it so much and trusted John with this part of himself but did not trust his own feelings? That he was overwhelmed, could not reason through it because it had nothing to do with logic but with feelings? And that the biggest problem was that he wanted it, wanted everything John could give him? That he just was not sure if he deserved it?

Opening his mouth, he tried to voice his concerns but could not find the words. To his embarrassment, he could feel tears forming in his eyes and was powerless to stop them. John stood only an arm's length away, his right arm stretched just shy of touching. Through tear-blurred vision, Sherlock could see John's caring mien, full of hesitation. It made Sherlock lose his last smidgen of control. With a loud sob Sherlock fell to his knees and buried his head against John's stomach, holding onto him with desperation.

John froze for a moment before he began to stroke Sherlock’s hair, murmuring something Sherlock could not hear over his sobbing. After a short time, he could feel John slowly lower himself until they both sat on the cold bathroom floor, Sherlock clinging tightly to John with his head pressed to John’s shoulder. John stroked his hair and his back soothingly, still talking softly until Sherlock calmed down and stopped crying.

John kissed Sherlock's curls and grabbed a wad of toilet paper.

“Here.”

Sherlock sat back, unable to look John in the eyes, and took the offering. While he was cleaning himself up John swore and jumped up. His joints protesting his time on the floor, John stiffly stepped around Sherlock and stopped the water.

“That could have been messy,” he said, turning back to hunker down next to Sherlock. “Feeling better?”

Sherlock nodded, so John continued.

“Can you tell me what happened?” John still sounded hesitant,as if he was to blame for Sherlock's emotional breakdown.

Sherlock finally looked at John.

“I don't know how.”

“Has it something to do with us?” John asked hesitantly, biting his lip. “Did you change your mind? You can, of course.”

“No! I want … It's just … ” Sherlock shrugged helplessly.

“All right.”

John reached out with his hand.

“C'm on. Into the tub with you.”

Sherlock slowly stood up, his legs also stiff from sitting on the cold floor. He dropped his pyjama trousers and, now naked, climbed into the tub. Meanwhile, John grabbed the bath additive and let a portion run into the warm water. Sherlock could smell cinnamon, vanilla and other spices – a pleasant scent, not too cloying or to artificial. Laying his head against the edge of the tub, he tried to relax.

John grabbed the stool, put it next to Sherlock’s head and sat down before grabbing Sherlock's shampoo.

“Duck your head under,” he said. “I'm going to wash your hair.”

Sherlock did what he was told and soon hummed softly at the feeling of John's hands in his hair, massaging his scalp.

“Can you please try to tell me why you cried?” John asked softly, without stopping his ministrations.

Sherlock opened his eyes and gazed unseeing at the ceiling.Before he could think too much about it, he closed his eyes again, opened his mouth and started talking.

“The last time I gave up my control, I became an addict,” he said. “Every person I have ever trusted used and manipulated me. Now, there is you. I trust you with my life, with everything. But how can I trust myself? Maybe I don't deserve this.”

John stopped his hands. He pushed Sherlock carefully into a sitting position and grabbed the shower head. He tipped Sherlock’s head back to rinse the shampoo out. Once John saw no more lingering soap bubbles amid Sherlock's curls, he shut off the water and moved his stool until he could make eye contact with Sherlock. Then he moved his chair until he had eye contact with Sherlock.

“This is different than your addictions,” John said. “You never gave up your control, then. The drugs took it. You told me you started using because you did not know what to do, because you felt that boredom drove you insane. But now, you are not nearly as bored as you were then. After everything you told me of your life, and from what I could gather myself through Mycroft and other means … well, it explains a lot.”

John smiled fondly before continuing.

“While I can't say that my wanting to take care of you is wholly unselfish, you being happy is important to me. And even If you don't trust yourself, listen to me. You deserve _this.”_

Sherlock smiled hesitantly and nodded.

“Thank you, John.”

John smiled back, taking hold of Sherlock's cheek as he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's brow.

“Now, how about we get you cleaned up.”

Sherlock, relieved that his emotional crisis was dealt with, for now, muttered.

“I'm not dirty.”

John's smile became predatory. He grabbed the bath soap and lathered his hands.

“Well, let's make sure.”

John rubbed his soapy hands over Sherlock’s arms, followed by his back and his chest. His touch was slow and intensive; to Sherlock every glide felt nearly reverent.

Humming softly, John finished washing Sherlock's torso and gestured for him to stand up. Sherlock did as asked and John went on, lathering Sherlock's legs. Finally, only a small part of Sherlock remained unwashed. John, with a fresh lather of soap, put his hands on Sherlock’s hips. Beginning to rub in small circles, he smiled up at Sherlock.

“I like my little one very clean, especially here. Now stay still.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, hoping it would help him to do as John said. He gasped as John's right hand slowly glided forward. First, John slid his hand between Sherlock's thighs and then slowly higher up until he reached Sherlock’s testicles. He cleaned them gently but thoroughly. Sherlock could feel himself getting hard. The stimulation was exquisite.

Thankful for John's hold on his hip, he shifted his feet a bit farther apart. Then, to his utter dismay, John did not do the logical thing – namely, put his hand on his cock. Instead, he put it back on Sherlock’s hip and, after positioning Sherlock sideways, moved his other hand. Sherlock now could feel John's hand on the globes on his arse, washing them lovingly before slipping his fingers between them.

At the feeling of John’s fingers between his cheeks, Sherlock tensed the muscles in his arse in surprise and bit his lip. This was a new sensation for him. He had washed himself before, of course, but he had never touched himself there in such an intimate way. Certainly, no one else ever had. John made a soothing noise and held still, waiting until Sherlock relaxed again before continuing to move his fingers.

First, there were long strokes from his tailbone to the back of his sack. The strokes grew shorter with each pass, until John was simply touching Sherlock's hole with his fingertips, over and over, sometimes pressing a little bit but never really penetrating.

Sherlock blushed a deep red; he never would have believed that being touched there would feel this good. But then, John had never touched him there, and John’s touches were the best.

Sherlock noticed his mind slowing down, making it harder and harder to think of anything other than the immediate events. He even lost some of his eloquence, which normally would have made him worry. With John, he was willing to just let it happen.

A twitch of his cock made him aware there was another part of him that John should touch. Sherlock whined, his cock straining upwards – nearly vertical – and his foreskin pulled back from the head.

“John … Daddy, please.”

John stopped his ministrations to Sherlock's arse and turned him back around until they once again were facing each other.

“Shhh, my boy. All in good time. Remember to keep still.”

Sherlock shuddered. John's voice was again deliciously dominant yet caring. He felt his mind going silent, concentrating only on the sensations running through his flesh and on John. Sherlock fought himself to stay still. But when John finally took his dick in hand, Sherlock couldn’t help it. He opened his eyes wide and looked down at John, who watching his own moving hand and licking his lips. He was looking hungrily at Sherlock’s cock gliding through his hand, but his touches were slow, thoroughly cleaning it. Having a visual added to the sensations of John’s touch were nearly too much. Sherlock could not stop himself from grabbing John's shoulders and whining desperately. John stopped his stroking, though he continued to gently hold Sherlock's cock in his warm, slippery hand. John chuckled indulgently.

“Nearly done, little one. I promised to take care of you, and I am. But you're almost clean now and then we'll get the soap off.”

The momentary tightening of his grip promising fulfilment, John finished cleaning Sherlock's penis nearly clinically. Still, by the time he was done, Sherlock was shaking from the strain of not thrusting into John’s hold.

John opened the drain and once again used the shower to rinse the soap off Sherlock. After helping him out of the tub, he towelled Sherlock dry, again taking special care with his privates, and leading him into the bedroom.

“Lie down, on your back. I'll be right back. And be good. No touching yourself!”

John's stern voice again made Sherlock shudder. He climbed into bed and waited for John to come back. He could hear John walk into the living room and pick up a crinkling plastic bag. Then John stood outside the bedroom door for a few moments before coming back in. He put the simple black bag on the nightstand and climbed into bed. Lying on his side next to Sherlock, he smiled proudly.

“Good. You are so very well-behaved.“

Leaning down, he kissed Sherlock's nose. Wrinkling his nose, Sherlock caught John's gaze, begging for more, his whole body taut.

“Please, John,” he whispered.

John smiled, putting a hand in Sherlock's hair and slowly leaned forward to press their lips together. Sherlock eagerly opened his mouth to John, letting him lead the kiss. Sherlock could get addicted – already was addicted – to John's kisses.

After some time, John broke the kiss,leaning back a bit so they could see each other clearly. He smiled.

“You are so good, my sweet boy. I'm so proud of you, my brilliant, handsome boy,” John said with a thick voice, his laboured breathing a sign that he was equally affected by their kiss.

Putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, John sat up. Slowly, John caressed Sherlock's skin, gliding his hand over the pronounced collarbones. Sherlock squirmed, loving the slow, soft touches, the intimacy of John's gaze, but needing more.

Without thinking, Sherlock opened his mouth.

“Please, Daddy. More.”

“Such a good boy,” John answered, sliding his hand to one of Sherlock's nipples. Stroking it with his thumb, he kissed Sherlock's jaw, nipping playfully. Sherlock clung to the comforter with a death grip, eyes pressed shut. He moaned deeply when John licked over his already pebbled nipple. When had John moved?

“Please, Daddy. Don’t stop. Please please please.”

Sherlock could hear himself sobbing between moans. John had used his fingers to find Sherlock's other nub while still licking and sucking on the first one. Sherlock keened loudly, feeling his cock twitch. Writhing, he could not stop his pelvis from moving in erratic thrusts.

John stopped his assault on Sherlock's nipples, switching instead to kiss, nibble and stroke Sherlock's torso, getting lower and lower until Sherlock could feel John's hot breath on his dick. It was too much. He came with a shout of “Daddy!”

Breathing hard, John shifted upward up and put a hand on Sherlock’s breastbone, keeping him grounded.

When he opened his eyes, John was looking at him with indulgent fondness.

“So pretty when you come. You couldn’t hold back, could you?”

Sherlock blushed deeply.

“I'm sorry, Daddy.”

“It's all right, little one.”

John kissed Sherlock deeply, full of promise.

“We are far from done for today.”


End file.
